


All the Stars

by queenwho



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Artist Katsuki Yuuri, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I’m going to give the gays everything they want, M/M, Prince Victor Nikiforov, Slow Burn, Vicchan Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-06-18 01:15:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15474249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenwho/pseuds/queenwho
Summary: Before Yuuri could stop himself, he blurts, “are you in the Mafia?”“Just because I’m Russian doesn’t mean I’m –” Vitya starts to say indignantly.“I know, I know, sorry,” he says, feeling the flush on his face.~Later at night in bed, sleep evades him. After a few minutes, he gives in to his curiosity and searches who the crown prince of the Russian empire is.It’s Russian Mafia Guy.He screams.~In which some things don't work out, others do, and falling in love just needs a chance.





	1. tie yourself to me

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii! This work is inspired by a K-Drama called Princess Hours, though I've changed some aspects of it.
> 
> Anyway, I haven't written fic in a while, and this is my first for this fandom, so please be kind! This is unbetaed but Con-crit is always welcome. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! And also, you're in for a wild ride lmao.
> 
> Kudos and comments make my heart sing!!
> 
> shoot me a message on [tumblr!](http://www.queenwho.tumblr.com)

*

The lighting is bad. 

Though the curtains were drawn aside, the windows spanning the whole room did not provide much natural light as clouds loomed over the horizon. Outside, snow covers the mountainous concrete towers of New York, white painting the pavement as pedestrians try not to slip. 

Yuuri sighs, moves his easel from one angle to another, tries to find the perfect spot that would best illuminate his work. His hands are smudged with black, charcoal residue shadowing his fingertips.

He closes his eyes and breathes, deep and slow – a constant intake, a consistent give off.

A moment, then another, before he’s looking out at the city he’s learnt to claim as home. From where he is, floors from all the incurable chaos below, he can almost start to believe that this is where he belongs.

Suddenly, a cheery voice calls out to him, and his smile is there before he’s even aware of it.

“Last I checked, it’s an anatomy drawing, Yuuri. Trying to get inspiration from pavement and buildings? Very New York!”

He turns, the smooth surface of the stool he’s sitting on accompanying the easy movement. He checks the clock mounted on a wall. “Last I checked, your flight leaves in 3 hours, Phichit,” Yuuri answers, raising an eyebrow at his friend, though the reprimanding look he tries for is dampened by the smile on his face. “Shouldn’t you be heading to the airport now?”

Phichit grins, walking over to where Yuuri and his easel are. “I wanted to say goodbye before I had to endure the holiday airport madness!” he exclaims. After a moment, he turns towards the drawing, directing his attention to the shadows ripped from Yuuri’s hands. Phichit’s are close to brushing the lines, analyzing the work almost reverently, before he draws his hand back.

“You really are something else, Yuuri,” he mumbles, smiling gently down at Yuuri.

Yuuri tries to retort, mouth already open to shoot down the idea _. Not in this_ _school_ _._ _Surely people_ _are more_ _talented_ _here._ _More_ _persistent_ _._ _More_ _skillful_ _._ _More_ _everything_ _that_ _he can’t be._

“Ah! I won’t hear it!” Phichit shushes like he’s heard the thoughts thundering in Yuuri’s head, rolling his eyes playfully. “I’m stopping myself before I get off of that tangent, Yuuri. You know everyone here thinks you’re amazing.”

Yuuri huffs, and Phichit swats him lightly on his arm.

“Anyway, I need to go before I really _do_ miss my flight,” Phichit says, glancing at his phone to check the time. “Here,” he says, thrusting a wrapped box that Yuuri only now notices right into his arms. “Merry Christmas! I won’t say it’s nothing much because _it is_ much! I spent a solid 30 minutes buying that gift online.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes and laughs. “Thanks, Phichit. Appreciate it,” he says, before straightening up a second later. “My gift! It’s–”

“Under your bed where your old anime drawings are,” Phichit cuts off while Yuuri lets out an unattractive squawk. “I know, it’s already in my luggage.”

“Under my bed is a private place, Phichit,” Yuuri hisses, hand fisted in his chest in a display of full offense.

Phichit hums, smiling, and, moments later, Yuuri calms down. He stands from the stool and wraps his arms around his best friend. “Merry Christmas. Enjoy Bangkok,” Yuuri says after they’ve separated. 

It’s strange; to be separated from Phichit feels almost like being separated from family. He’s created this dynamic with his roommate, comfortable and serene, without expectations, that he now feels at a loss by saying goodbye. Though it’s only for a few weeks, being constantly with someone has altered him.

“Enjoy Hasetsu! I’ll see you soon, Yuuri!” Phichit replies, before stepping back and heading towards where he came from.

Yuuri tries to refocus his attention on his work before he hears Phichit again.

“Oh, and by the way,” Phichit calls back, stopping right before he exits the studio. “That shading on Sailor Moon was ghastly. I expected more from you, Yuuri!”

“Phichit!”

~

It’s been hours since Phichit’s flight left, and he’s still sat in the middle of his favorite studio, staring at the grays of his drawing like they’re going to jump out and engulf him.

Yuuri turns to the wall clock, watching the seconds tick to a minute, then two.

6:45 PM. He’s been here since 8:00 AM.

He sighs and admits defeat. The project isn’t really anything important, not school related whatsoever. Still, lately, Yuuri’s been feeling restless, like his hands can’t stay still, can’t stay away from holding a brush or a pencil, or anything that can help him create something.

He’s had too many readings lately, and he’s never been that good at theory. He craves the practice: the action and motions that can spell out a new illustration better than any piece of literature he could only hope to understand.  

He misses the days when he was trying his best just to finish undergrad, to clean his hands off of paint, submit the final piece, and receive his diploma. He would never have thought, 3 years later, that he would be back, burning with an almost cabin-fever like unease and striving towards a Master’s. Growing up was strange, but growing older is even stranger.

He stops that train of thought. God knows what could happen if he starts to doubt himself again.

Yuuri takes a last look at the unfinished piece and moves to store it away. Next semester, after he goes home and finds inspiration from his sleepy old hometown, then maybe he can finally finish something he’s started.

He takes a few minutes to tidy up, grabs his poodle printed backpack, and steps out once the studio is clean.

The halls of the NYU Steinhardt are familiar to him, having spent years of his life at first dreaming of being there to actually attending classes every day. He allows himself to drift for a while, at home surrounded by the cold walls. He thinks of his flight tomorrow and it immediately produces a sour taste in his mouth.

It’s been months since he’s been to Japan and even more years since he’s been in Hasetsu. He misses his family, of course. Misses the warmth that they provide, the support that they never tire of giving.

But  –

That’s the thing. It’s been a while since Yuuri graduated with his Bachelor’s degree in Studio Arts, and in that span of time, rejection and no replies from employers have slapped him in the face more times than he can count.

Those bitter years where he missed home but couldn’t bring himself to buy the ticket and leave, the constant reminder of being a failure has anchored him, so much so that he’s afraid he’s starting to sink.

He’s shaken from his revery when he hears voices coming from a room nearby. This late at night and this close to Christmas, he thought that he would be the only one left in the building. Yuuri was just about to move on before he hears it.

“Marry me.”

He blinks, right foot still in the air almost comically as he halts.

 _Is someone being proposed to? In a classroom? What?_ He blinks, then strains his ear. 

Yuuri hears laughter, then a sigh, and the same voice again. “I’m serious, Chris. Marry me.”

Now Yuuri won’t call himself a rude person, and he doesn’t normally eavesdrop on people’s failed proposals like a cynical creep, but something about the conversation keeps his attention.

And, exactly like a cynical creep, he slowly moves to the ajar door of the room and hopes that he isn’t visible. He chances a glance and sees two men facing each other as they lean their ridiculously long bodies on top of desk chairs.

More laughter then, “Oh, Vitya,” another voice says, Chris’s he presumes, and the low timbre of it edges towards a joking lilt. “You had your chance years ago and you blew it!”

He looks again and sees the other man – _Vitya_ – groaning as he pushes his hair back from his forehead. “Shut up, Chris,” Vitya admonishes. “This is very serious.”

Chris sighs and Yuuri hears the sound of clothes rustling and chairs moving.

“I know, Vitya,” Chris says softly, gently, as he stops teasing. “I love you, you know that. But I won’t trap you in a sham of a marriage just because you want people off your back.”

Yuuri processes this sentence for a second and is immediately bewildered. _What is happening?_

“At least it’s you, Chris,” he hears Vitya says quietly, and Yuuri doesn’t have to look to know that he says this with a smile. “You’ve seen it all before.”

“Yeah, Cheri, and I’m really not that impressed.”

He hears the two men laugh, and he takes it as his cue to leave. As interesting as the conversation was, he really doesn’t want to know where it could go given time.

Just as he’s about to start walking away from the room, though, his phone rings.

Loudly.

There are a few seconds where it seems like the world is at a standstill. Nothing but him and the incessant ring of his phone on full volume.

It’s some anime OP that Phichit set for him as a prank once that he never got around to changing and he wants to cry. Or run. Or both.

He hears someone scramble behind him, and glances to see Vitya coming his way, “Hey!” he shouts.

And, of course, Yuuri could explain, could lie that he didn’t hear much of anything, and briskly walk off the awkwardness of the lie.

But at the end of the day, Yuuri is Yuuri so he does what any Yuuri would do.

He runs as fast as he can, with his poodle printed backpack bouncing behind him.

~

It’s 9:45 in the morning and Yuuri is going to miss his flight.

He’s never been the type to be overly punctual despite the crumbling anxiety that demands him to _leave an hour, no, two hours early, it’s never too early._  

His love of sleep and despise of mornings is the worst combination of early morning activities, the only thing that could maybe get him up before noon willingly is when he's feeling too restless, hands unable to stay still. Still, when he gets out of bed only three hours before his international flight, he knows he’s fucked.

He does the quickest change of clothes in all of history and grabs his passport, stuffing it in his bag.

It’s a good thing that he’s already packed his luggage last night, and he doesn’t even spare his toothbrush a glance as he grabs his favorite backpack, does a customary check in his head that he’s got all the essentials before bolting out of his and Phichit’s apartment.

As he stomps down the stairs of the building, he realizes that it’s just his luck that his phone is dead. Of _course_ he forgot to charge it last night. Of course. Maybe the Uber gods are disgusted at his lack of traveling conduct. Now he has to do it the old-fashioned way and try to catch a cab all the way to the airport.

 _Try_  is the key, as all of Yuuri’s days in New York, he’s never had the success of actually calling a cab; some other passerby always steals the ones that pause for him.

Phichit used to tell him that he should stop being too nice. Yuuri thinks that it’s probably because he’s not aggressive enough.

Still, this is no time to think about his taxi-calling woes and looks to the ground to gather his composure. His calm is somewhere in him, he knows it.

He hits the sidewalk, brisk walking while tugging on his full-to-the-50 kilos luggage behind him. He tries his best to remember where the nearest subway station is, all of his calm is quickly abandoning him as he looks at his watch and sees the time.

“Fuck,” he curses, hating the way his heart is beating too fast for his body.

It might not be too serious. He could always just catch a later flight, put off all this worry for another day.

But he knows it’s more than the lateness that’s getting to him. The thought of home is clouding his mind, and he knows that there’s no more running away from it.

He crosses the road, and blissfully spots the Kingston-Throop station that he knows was only a couple of blocks away from his apartment. He almost cries in relief.

He’s calculating the travel time from Bed-Stuy to JFK, just about to descend the steps to the subway, when he feels someone yanking his backpack, pulling him to a secluded alley.

Yuuri is at first shocked, then dumbfounded, then panicked.

He thinks, _this is such a stupid way to die._

He feels someone’s hands on the sides of his head bracketing him in as his back is slammed against the wall, backpack having fallen off to his side amidst the whole array.

He realizes that his eyes are involuntarily shut. Yuuri can’t bring himself to open them, the thought that maybe he’s dreaming if he doesn’t yet open his eyes forcing them closed.

“Are you going to open your eyes soon, poodle backpack, or are we staying here all day,” a voice says, directly in front of him. It seems familiar, with the rough edges of an accent sharpening the words.

He’s immobile for a few seconds before he hears the man in front of him give a huff.

Yuuri opens his eyes and screams.

He tries to, anyway, before a hand clamps down on his mouth.

“ _Дерьмо́,_ I just want to talk,”  _Vitya_ hisses at him.

Yuuri thinks that he may look like he’s going to try to scream again Vitya follows with, “shut up, I’m not going to hurt you.”

He processes this for a moment as he sees at Vitya’s almost haggard looking face. He nods a moment later.

Vitya copies the action before gingerly taking off his hand from Yuuri’s mouth, watching to make sure that Yuuri wouldn’t start screaming again.

They stare at each other for seconds too long before Yuuri notices that Vitya’s other hand is still beside Yuuri’s head, that they’re faces are too close for comfort.

He coughs open-mouthed and he sees the way Vitya withdraws, the scrunching of his face.

 _Right_ , Yuuri thinks, _toothbrush_.

He sees Vitya cross his arms across the fitted suit he’s wearing, the man’s eyes chillingly looking at him, scrutinizing him.

“I know you heard,” he says, low, quietly, like he’s edging towards a dangerous topic. Like he’s giving a warning.

Before Yuuri could respond, Vitya holds a hand up to silence him.

“I’ll make this quick, how much do you want?”

A quiet descends in Yuuri’s mind before he understands the words and bristles.

“ _What_?” Yuuri hisses back, squaring his shoulders, indignant at the words coming from this man’s mouth.

“How much?” Vitya says, enunciating the words slowly, giving the sense of urgency yet nonchalance at the same time.

Yuuri would be amazed at this type of composure but at the moment, his pride is too bruised and he’s too confused to think much of it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yuuri says, and he could feel his own face hardening, a striking contrast to the indifference displayed on Vitya’s.

Vitya huffs a condescending laugh, “So you don’t want money, then? I don’t believe it.”

Yuuri sputters, he’s so confused at this point, and he really doesn’t have the time for this.

“Look,” Vitya continues, serious again. “I know how much you could get if you sell this to a tabloid, but I can counter that offer twice. Thrice, even, if you _just_ keep your mouth shut.”

And Yuuri is annoyed now. He doesn’t understand what’s happening, doesn’t understand why he would go to a tabloid of all places to sell one man’s failed proposal. He has a flight to catch and this, whatever it is that is happening right now, is not helping his cause.

He gives the biggest glare he could muster, “I don’t even _know_ you.”

Vitya blinks at him after this, the surety in his gait lost in a flash. He steps back a little, seeming confused himself. “You... don’t?” he says, questioning.

Yuuri huffs. _The arrogance_ , he thinks. He knows that a lot of famous people live in New York, but Phichit is the only connection he has to popular culture, and, if he’s being honest, he only kindly indulges his roommate on the days where he feels like Yuuri should stop living under his rock.

He _likes_ his rock.

“ _No_!” Yuuri says incredulously.

Vitya starts to reply, but an old man wearing a finely pressed suit approaches from the sidewalk.

“ _Цесаревич_ ,” the old man says, his voice gruff as he slightly bows. He addresses Vitya in another language, _Polish?_ Yuuri thinks. _Maybe Russian?_

They hold the exchange for a minute before the old man nods and leaves.

Before Yuuri could stop himself, he blurts, “are you in the Mafia?”

Vitya starts at this, “I – _what_?”

“What?” Yuuri copies, feeling embarrassed.

“Just because I’m _Russian_ doesn’t _mean_ I’m –” Vitya starts to say indignantly, and Yuuri stops him, waving his hands as if to erase the whole incident.

“I know, I _know_ , sorry,” he says, feeling the flush on his face.

Vitya looks at him again, with the same stare that makes Yuuri feel like he’s under a microscope. Then, he rolls his eyes and takes a larger step back.

“Anyway,” Vitya hums, lighthearted, a small smile forming on his mouth. It looks the least bit like a smile to Yuuri and more like a finely pointed knife. “You don’t say a word, or else. Got it?”

“I –” He starts to say, but Vitya interrupts him as the man walks away.

“Would love to chat,” Vitya says, not facing Yuuri, holding a hand up in the air as a farewell. It looks like he’s trying to swat a fly away. “But my jet is here. See you around, poodle backpack!”

He reaches the sidewalk and turns, leaving Yuuri bewildered.

“His _jet_?”

~

The red stickers scattered all over the onsen’s lobby greets Yuuri obnoxiously, their bloody gleam telling Yuuri of what he already knew: Loan sharks coming to get their due.

Behind him, Minako- _sensei_ claps his back, “ _Okaeri_ , Yuuri!”

He gives her a small smile, giving a quiet ‘ _tadaima’_ though they’ve had this exact exchange about 10 times since she’s picked him up from the station.

He takes off his shoes, the task proving difficult as Vicchan tries to lick his face while in Yuuri’s arms. Then, he is greeted by his father running from the kitchen to one of the dining rooms, older face stretched wide in a grin, oblivious of his presence.

“ _Otousan?_ ” he calls out before his father disappears into the room, and Toshiya halts abruptly before his smile grows even wider.

“Yuuri!” Toshiya exclaims, now running towards where Yuuri is.

He hears bodies scrambling in the dining room and the thuds come closer as his mother and sister come into view.

“Yuuri, _okaeri_!” His mother grins, flush on her cheeks from how happy she is.

“You didn’t even grow an inch taller, _otouto_?” Mari says though the smile that she has on her face betrays the nonchalance he knows she wants to exude.

They stand before him, behind him, in his arms. His family. All of a sudden, he feels like crying, but he knows this isn’t the time. He sees his mother seemingly unable to hold it anymore, and he feels the hug he was expecting lift the weight from his body.

There are tears on his shirtsleeve a second later, and his mother’s scent is enough to make him laugh.

Yuuri hears his father copy his laughter and Vicchan squirms in his hold, wanting to be let down.

His mother breaks the hug, and Yuuri lowers Vicchan, the no-longer puppy scrambling away from the commotion.

“I’m sorry it took me a while to come back,” Yuuri starts, but his mother silences him with a soft, yet still reprimanding look.

“We understand, Yuuri. I’m just so happy you’re home.” 

He tries to smile back, but he can feel how awkward it must look, with the guilt still stewing in his gut.

“You must be tired! Are you hungry? I’ve made your favorite,” Hiroko says, as she ushers Yuuri and Minako into the entrance hall. “Tell me all about New York. I want to know every detail! How’s Phichit?”

Yuuri laughs at his mother’s enthusiasm, contagious as it was. He moves towards the dining hall too, before taking a sweeping glance around the room that leaves him in awe.

Growing up, Yu-topia has always been busy and buzzing, with guests coming in and out every minute. Still, and to this day he doesn’t know how, his mother has always kept it sparkling clean. No grime, stains, nor out-of-place chairs anywhere.

Yuuri thinks that maybe it was the imagination of his younger self now, as he sees the room completely upturned, with the tables and chairs all misaligned. The television set is crooked, almost to the point of falling off of its stand; the vases are on the floor, and some paintings have even fallen off their hooks. Most importantly, the hall is empty, void of all the patrons Yuuri knows visit regularly.

“I –,” he stutters, astonished at the mess. “What happened?”

“Oh! That,” his father laughs, and Yuuri can’t gauge how genuine it is. “We closed today so we could welcome you home! It’s more intimate this way, don’t you think?”

“Uh, sure,” he edges, unsure of what to say. “But – it’s so… messy?”

Suddenly, his father’s face transforms, though nothing changes literally. There’s a gleam in his eyes now, and he smiles wolfishly at Yuuri as he explains.

“Two men came in today, Yuuri-kun,” he starts, hands gesturing wildly as if retelling a Shakespearean tragedy, mysterious and profound. “All formal and with a beautiful car too!”

“They wanted to see if we still had the ring,” Mari continues for their father, Toshiya looking dismayed at being cut off.

“Ring?” Yuuri questions, and he’s looking back now at the events of the past days, how confusing it gets by the minute. Maybe he’s hallucinating all of this.

“ _Un_ , ring. Apparently, it’s a very important family heirloom that dad’s dad received from a king or whatever,” Mari explains, words dripping from her mouth in a way that she clearly thinks all of it is crap. 

Toshiya silences her and turns to Yuuri. “It’s important, and we were looking for it. Which explains…” he drifts, waving a hand at the mess of a room, “all this.”

He hears his mother and Minako laugh as Toshiya and Mari start to argue, his sister adamant that they’re being pranked, his father convinced that his own father would never lie.

Yuuri stands straight, suddenly, and thinks. _Ring? A ring, somewhere. He’s seen it somewhere before. A ring… ring? Ring!_

He turns around, the sounds of his family’s conversation fading to a silence as he strides purposefully to the kitchen.

He hears his mother ask where he’s going, but he’s focused now. He knows where it is.

Yuuri gets to the kitchen and spots the old table right where he left it 6 years ago. All of the Katsukis and Minako are behind him now, having followed his focused gallop towards the kitchen.

He rounds the table, breathes for a moment, then lifts one side of it, where a leg is. He feels the ring under the leg, and grins, proudly presenting it to his family.

They look at it and shouts and exclaims are heard seconds later, making Yuuri’s grin grow. Vicchan is there then, jumping around everyone’s legs as he feels the energy bounding from person to person.

Though he doesn’t really understand the importance of a ring that he doubts were really from a king, he’s happy to see his family happy. He missed them so much, more than he’s realized.

They all settle after some time, but the glances that his mother and father keep giving each other are full of what Yuuri thinks is hope. They convene around the table, and Yuuri asks, “So, why is this ring so important again?”

A glance is exchanged again, though this time his mother looks more worried than hopeful. “The suits explained it all to us earlier,” Toshiya starts to explain, slowly this time, as if he’s taking his time to find the right words in his head. “Though of course my father also explained it to me before he passed.”

“You see, Yuuri,” Hiroko continues, the explanation almost like a planned script between his parents on who gets to say who. Mari is by the door now, a cigarette in her mouth as she watches the scene with a grin. Minako takes a swig beside his mother, sake bottle clutched between her fingers.

“Apparently, your grandfather and the king of the Russian Empire were quite good friends. Grandfather was only a fisherman here in Hasetsu, but he saved the king from choking while visiting Tokyo,” his mother says, the story getting more and more unbelievable as it gets clearer. He takes a sip of his water, not liking where this is going.

“They became good friends,” Toshiya says, “enough that _otousan_ even stayed in Russia for a while to keep the king company. He couldn’t live there forever, though, as mother and I were here, in Hasetsu.”

“Before grandfather left, though,” Hiroko trails, casting a questioning glance at Toshiya, then to Mari. She nods, and Hiroko continues, “the king gave him a ring, as a sign of his gratitude. It was supposed to be for your father, but he was an only child and a man too, and the king’s son already had a wife.”

It starts slowly, pieces taping themselves together, the details stitching to one explanation.

“The king,” Mari says at last after Hiroko stopped explaining, “promised the ring to the next generation, then. If circumstances apply, a member of the Katsuki family is to marry the Tsesarevich, the heir to the Russian Empire.”

Silence, except for Minako’s choking, descends on the room. At first, Yuuri thinks that there’s absolutely no way. This sounds too much like a fairytale, too much like it’s something taken out of a movie.

But the solemn, serious faces of his family around him are enough to confirm it. He laughs, quietly, the nervous kind of laugh as he glances at Mari, her deadpan expression causing another bout of jittery laughter.

He doesn’t gain anything from staring at her face though. There’s no contempt nor aggression towards the idea of her getting forcefully shoved into a marriage and into changing her whole life to be a princess. To be a _queen_.

He still can’t believe it, and his family is looking at him now like he’s a wild animal, though why he doesn’t know. “So,” Yuuri starts, turning fully to where Mari is, “you’re getting married then?”

Mari raises an eyebrow at him as she stomps on the cigarette butt on the floor. She walks to where he is, slings her arm on Yuuri’s back, and smirks deviously, “weren’t you listening? _If circumstances allow_. Turns out, the crown prince is as straight as Vicchan’s curls, _otouto_.”

Yuuri stares at Mari, turns to his parents after as if asking for help. His mother’s face is nervous, his father’s, pleading.

“What?” he whispers, quietly, the disbelief that he feels draining towards his voice.

“Yuuri –” His mother tries to say, but Yuuri is panicking now and he drowns her out. Again and again, he thinks that this cannot be happening.

“Y–You expect me to…” he trails off, swallows, then continues, “marry him?” 

“Yuuri-kun, you have to understand,” Toshiya calms, as he approaches Yuuri with his hands in front of him, “Yu-topia, it’s not doing so well and –”

Suddenly, Hiroko stands, a determined look on her face. “No. No, Toshiya, _absolutely_ not. Don’t worry, Yuuri-kun, no one is forcing you to do _anything_. Least of all marriage!” Her face looks terrifying, scarier than what she looked like when she would reprimand him and Mari for squabbling when they were younger. “Otousan, give me the ring, I’ll throw it as far out into the ocean as I can.”

“But Hiroko, the loan sharks –” Toshiya tries to protest, but Hiroko turns to him with a glare that seems enough to silence him.

“I don’t care!” she hisses, “let them take every single thing that’s ours. Anything at all, but I will not _sell_ our boy!” Her breathing is tough, her body shaking as if she’s angry at Toshiya, at _herself_ , for even entertaining the thought.

For a moment, Yuuri thinks that his father will fight, but a second later, he looks almost chastised. “You’re right, of course. I didn’t know what I was thinking,” Toshiya says, shaking his head. “ _Gomen_ , Yuuri. Of course we’re not going through with it.”

All that time, he’s been sitting there, watching the scene. He understands, is aware of the red stickers on most of the stuff that his family owns. They’re deep in debt, and while they’ve never swam freely in money, it’s different now. _Hasetsu_ is different when once there were people out of town coming to enjoy the onsens, now not even the locals patronize it as much. Business is slow, and however way he looks at it, his family still needs to eat.

An inexplicable feeling of dread creeps in his gut.

Lightning fast, Mari slaps the back of his head, and he turns towards her sharply. “Stop it, Yuuri. I know what you’re thinking just from that look on your face. It’s not your fault that this is happening.”

Toshiya smiles and stands up as well. “Don’t worry, Yuuri-kun. Your mother, sister, and I are working day and night to save this onsen. Business is actually booming! Especially now with the cold winter months,” Toshiya says, though the smile on his face is strained, forced.

His mother is trying to give him a reassuring smile, while Minako- _sensei_ watches the whole ordeal, not entirely sober.

He nods, looking at his parents' determined faces and his sister’s passive one. The heavy air makes it hard to breathe.

The dreadful feeling lingers.

~

Later at night in bed, Yuuri turns and twists as sleep evades him. He stares at the paintings of his younger self on his walls, and laughs, realizing that he was floundering then, only hoping to finally find a place where he could show his passion. He sobers though, as the thought that he’s never gotten over it, that, up until today, this very moment, he flounders.

He sighs and turns again. After a few minutes, he groans and gives in to his curiosity. He grabs his now fully charged phone, and searches who the crown prince of the Russian empire is.

The results cause him to nearly pass out right then.  

It’s Russian Mafia Guy.

He screams.

 

*


	2. let our battles choose us

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri decides, Victor laughs at him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am alive!!! I can't believe it's been so long since I updated this. Life has been wilde. Anyway, I just finished this like 5 minutes ago and my brain is really fried so I'll proofread later lmao. 
> 
> This chapter is pretty slow as we look at Yuuri's thought process. I promise to have more Victor/Yuuri interactions in the coming chapters!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, and con-crit are always appreciated.
> 
> Title taken from: Glory and Gore - Lorde

Yuuri wakes up disoriented.

He opens his eyes to stare at the ceiling, seeing dark and stained wooden slats instead of the white popcorn ceiling of his and Phichit’s apartment in Brooklyn. 

Everything in his old bedroom looks odd to him now. It’s like he time traveled, like he put on clothes that are a little too tight, a little too old. The blankets that used to engulf his body still do, but it’s different, in a way. More suffocating when before they acted as a solace, a wall against the troubles of the real world outside his bedroom door. 

Vicchan squirms beside him and his boy’s small bark distracts Yuuri, familiar as he is with the way Vicchan asks for attention.

“Did I wake you, Vicchan?” Yuuri whispers. He sits up and scoops Vicchan’s small body in his arms. Immediately, the little dog stops his moving, calm where he is.

He caresses Vicchan’s head absentmindedly, currently in the throes of the hazy morning. 

It’s been 3 days since he’s been home and still his body feels strange — displaced. 

For the past five years, he’s spent Christmas in New York and the liveliness of everything there gave a new light to a holiday that Yuuri never much bothered with when he lived in Hasetsu. 

He remembers how he used to watch frantic Christmas shoppers almost claw at each other from the clearance racks. The memory of the time that Phichit dragged him to a mall, demanding that he should experience the frenzied energy of Christmas capitalism too niggles at the back of Yuuri’s mind, and something in his chest tightens. 

As he listens to the cry of seagulls outside his childhood bedroom’s window, it dawns on him that it seems like he’s gotten used to New York, to the raucous noise in every corner of the breathing city, as the stillness of the morning on the 26th makes him feel unsettled. 

His family has never been the type to celebrate a grand Christmas. Back when he still lived in Hasetsu, they would spend the afternoon in idle anticipation for the day to be over. The event itself has always made restless like he should be doing something much more monumental than just watching anime with Mari in the day and eating fried chicken and getting progressively more embarrassed as he observed the drunk antics of his father and Minako-sensei when the sun goes down. 

Much of the same happened last night, though this time Yuuri admittedly enjoyed it. He even managed to handle the second-hand embarrassment he always gets when his father starts dancing around the banquet hall three sheets to the wind, tie dutifully around his neck. 

Christmas night was a small but festive affair. The Nishigori’s came with a bottle of sake and their triplets and the added company made the party just a hint bit louder and livelier. Still, seeing his two closest friends from a time gone after so long made him feel nostalgic for his younger days, to the time when school and his crush on Yuuko were his only problems.

Now, Yuuko and Takeshi are all grown up. Married, with kids, and decent livelihoods. If he compares himself to them, he knows his life would look as if it’s a movie on pause with the way he feels like it’s on a standstill. 

It’s not that he envies them. His feelings for Yuuko were nothing more than a schoolboy crush, and he sees her now as one of his closest friends; a sister, even. He knows that he’s got it good: chasing his dreams in one of the most beautiful cities in the world, living with a best friend he loves and that loves him back. The opportunities that have been given to him are tremendous, the artists he meets everyday extraordinary. 

It’s just, well. He’s not moving. He’s stagnant, with the wheels flat and no matter how he tries to push, they remain unresponsive. 

Yuuri laughs a little to himself as he continues scratching Vicchan’s small head, looking out at the snowfall from his window. 

I need to be careful with what I wish for, Yuuri thinks, stagnancy is better than unwanted movement. 

For the past few days, his family has been walking on eggshells around him, striding past the elephant in the room, and changing the topic whenever the word marriage so much as pops up from a guest’s mouth. 

He has seen his mother’s tense smile at a regular’s drunk boom on how his little girl is getting married; his father’s clumsiness, almost dropping bottles of sake when a wedding ad popped up on the television. Yuuri is thankful to all the deities in the world for Mari, who, like him, would just roll her eyes at their parent’s antics.

He has been doing his best to show nonchalance, that the topic is above him, that he knows it’s nothing but a silly thought. Yuuri is 24, and though that’s not exactly a strange age to get hitched, he feels too young. He still has things he wants to accomplish, dreams to sweat after. 

Yuuri knows that marriage isn’t a shackle, that it could elevate someone, has seen it in his parents; they look like a well-oiled machine when working, busy but in love and happy. 

But an arranged marriage? Just the thought of it makes him want to drown back into his bed covers and not come up for years. 

_It’s 2018. Who still has arranged marriages?_

He huffs and Vicchan lifts his head to look at him. 

It’s a quizzical look like Vicchan is wondering about what’s bothering him. He knows it’s mean, and it’s one of the things that he will never voice out loud to his family, but he’s missed Vicchan the most in the past 5 years he’s been gone. 

It’s like his dog understands, though Yuuri knows he really doesn’t. Still, the lack of judgment, the fullness of love and devotion in Vicchan’s eyes are enough for him. 

He hugs Vicchan tighter to his chest and kisses his head. He puts him down after a minute to stand up, his dog following his lead, tail wagging.

Morning musings are part of his routine, but this whole thing is making his head hurt. As much as he would love to stay in bed all day and cuddle with his poodle, he knows that he should probably spend some time with his family.

Yuuri looks down at Vicchan, “time to eat, huh, buddy?” he voices, and Vicchan leads the way to the door.

~

 

It’s reaching noon when Yuuri finishes with feeding Vicchan. 

He hears the rumble of his stomach as he walks towards the kitchen, and he realizes that he’s lost track of time thinking about the state of his life. 

Yuuri wonders why no one came to his room to wake him up for breakfast, but he realizes that his family knows better than to rouse Yuuri from sleep.

He’s thinking of what might be for lunch when he hears the distressed voice of his mother from one of the closed dining hall doors.

He stops, thinking of whether he should listen or not, but the thought that maybe his parents aren’t telling him much of anything about the state of the business keeps him still and where he is.

Is this my new thing now? Yuuri thinks offhandedly as he scoots that much closer to where the sound is coming from, eavesdropping on serious conversations behind closed doors?

“I’m sorry, Katsuki-san,” says a pained voice that Yuuri doesn’t recognize, “but this is beyond generosity now. We’ve given you months, extra months to pay for your loans.”

“Please, Sato-san,” Toshiya says, and Yuuri can hear the anguish in it, the worry and stress resonating in his father’s voice. “The pipes broke unexpectedly last month, and we had to make repairs. Please give us until the end of January, and we’ll find a way to pay you back in full.”

Coldness swipes at Yuuri’s chest as he realizes what he’s hearing. For a moment, it is as if all the oxygen in the world has vanished and his lungs strain to grasp even the smallest breath.

It hurts him, he realizes then. To hear his father pleading, begging to have more time. Yuuri is too self-aware now to not know that one of his biggest downfalls is his own pride. He hates asking for help, hates admitting when he’s having a hard time at anything to anyone at all. 

To hear this, then, his father’s breaking voice. It’s a blow to his chest, his heart feels weak, too soft for the conversation. He turns and walks as quietly as he can to avoid his presence being known. His hunger is completely forgotten as he frantically snatches Vicchan’s leash and leaves the doors of Yu-topia.

He escapes like he always does, but he just needs time. Time to think, to evaluate and see what he can do. What he can provide to ease the burden from his parents. He promises to himself that he’s not running away. He can’t run away from something as big as this, and he’s not going to turn his back on his family.

He walks, for a while, not thinking of anything at all. Beside him, Vicchan pants, tongue lolling out as his tail wags happily. The vest that Yuuri bought for him looks comfortable, and Yuuri hopes that Vicchan isn’t too cold. 

After some time, they reach a familiar spot, and he stops to look at where the water crashes on the beach, again and again. It makes for a serene picture: the soft glow of the water as the sun hits its surface, the roll and ripple of the waves, the perfect emptiness of it all. 

Yuuri sits on the sand, the cold biting at his fingers and ass. He ignores it and lets Vicchan free to roam around. 

It’s their spot, his and Vicchan’s. When Yuuri was younger, whenever he was in turmoil or when he felt inspiration draining from his bones, he would come to the beach with his dog to just think. Sometimes, to just be. 

The lulling sound as the waves crash on the sand is comforting to him, makes him feel at ease. It calms the rapid-fire beating of his heart, and he breathes in the salty scent that only being near the ocean can provide.

He thinks that he’s been thinking too much today, but what can he do?

He knows. He knows that he can do something. At this point, it almost feels like he’s just putting off the inevitable. Yuuri’s always been a procrastinator, but to think that he would do it for marriage too is hilarious.

He thinks back to how Mari told him that it’s not his fault, that the onsen isn’t failing because of anything that he’s specifically done. Still, the insidious thoughts that gnaw at his mind won’t shut up. It’s not his fault that there are not many customers, no, but he could have done something else to help. 

Could have sent money for repairs, could have come home more often to help with the work load, could have been present when his family was breaking their backs trying to make ends meet.

He could have stayed, gone to a university somewhere closer, taken a more reliable major. 

Yuuri closes his eyes. He should have woken up from the fever dream of being a renowned artist, and he should’ve faced reality. Maybe then he would’ve seen the broken tables in the onsen’s dining halls, the creaky floorboards, and the bags under his parents’ eyes. 

Yuuri can feel tears, bitter and painful, swarm his eyes. With no one but Vicchan around to see, he lets them fall.

Vicchan comes then as if sensing Yuuri’s tears. He noses at Yuuri’s hand, a sad whine escaping as Yuuri fails to acknowledge him.

He feels guilty, and he’s aware of the constant churning of it in his gut, but it comes to him now, as he’s sobbing on an empty beach, that there’s another feeling: Anger. He’s angry at himself, at the fact that this is the only thing that he could do to help his parents. Angry that he feels so selfish, that even when he doesn’t really have a choice, he’s still stubborn enough to refuse. 

He’s mostly angry at the prince too, at Vitya, for accepting this proposal, this sham of a marriage. He doesn’t even know why the prince would. Surely he would have some say in this? Surely he knew who Yuuri was by now?

He’s drawn away from his thoughts as he feels Vicchan worm his way into Yuuri’s arms, and it halts the sobs escaping from his mouth. He releases a faint chuckle, and places his head on Vicchan’s curls, hiding his face.

“Do you think they’ll let you come, Vicchan?”

~

Yuuri treks home after a short hour with the cold becoming too much, forcing his way back. 

He knows he looks like shit, his eyes are probably bloodshot and his cheeks most likely too puffy, but he doesn’t have the energy nor the motivation to make himself more presentable.

He enters the onsen doors, and takes his shoes off, replacing them instead with his old and torn slippers that have seen better days.

Yuuri spots his mother as he’s hanging Vicchan’s leash on the hook by the door, and the sound of her heavily accented English catches him off guard. He hears the words “rejects” and “proposal” before he’s taking off, snatching the phone from his mother. 

Hiroko’s hand is still hanging in the air when Yuuri speaks on the receiver. “Hello,” he says breathlessly to the other person on the phone, “this is Katsuki Yuuri speaking.”

Hiroko is at his side in an instant, looking at him with wide, surprised eyes. 

“Good afternoon, Katsuki-san,” a voice replies. “My name is Vasily Kuznetsov, and I am the private secretary to Her Imperial Majesty, Queen Catherine III. I was just speaking to your mother about the Crown’s proposal, though it’s unfortunate to hear that you declined–”

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t decline,” Yuuri cuts him off, determined. “I haven’t decided yet,” he continues with less gusto.

For a moment, there’s silence on the other line, then, “well, time is of the essence as preparations for the ceremony would take some months to arrange. Nevertheless, the Crown understands that this is no trivial matter, and respect your need for time.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, relieved.

“Of course, Katsuki-san,” Vasily says and Yuuri thinks that that’s the end of the conversation.

Before he could end the call though, the voice filters back through the phone. “Still, even as you remain undecided, Her Majesty extends her invitation to you, Katsuki-san, to visit the Winter Palace to celebrate the coming of the new year. There is no formal event, but Her Majesty believes that it would be a great opportunity to meet you, and for you to see Saint Petersburg as well in its liveliest.”

“Oh, I–” Yuuri stutters, caught off guard at the sudden offer. He’s embarrassed as he’s reminded of the current state of his bank account. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Kuznetsov,” He winces slightly as he hears himself butcher the man’s name, “but I’m afraid that I currently do not have the funds to immediately book a ticket to Saint Petersburg but–”

“Please don’t trouble yourself, Katsuki-san,” Vasily replies, “you will be a guest of the Crown and your flight, accommodations, and other necessities will be provided for.”

Yuuri pauses at that and thinks. On the surface, it sounds like a warm invitation, like Yuuri is an honored guest that the Russians are glad to receive.

Still, he knows when someone is pushing, and at the tone of Vasily’s voice, assertive and demanding, it sounds as if Yuuri has little to no choice. 

He sighs and relents. 

~

The 13-hour direct flight from Fukuoka to Saint Petersburg was uneventful. Yuuri spent it mostly 1) wondering what he’s gotten himself into, 2) playing with Aeroflot’s first class fully reclinable airplane bed, and 3) trying his best to quell the creeping anxiety gnawing at his gut at the prospect of what’s to come. Or, more appropriately, of who exactly, was waiting for him at the end of this flight. 

The moment the plane touches down in Pulkovo airport is, unfortunately, also the same moment Yuuri starts to feel the sweat on his forehead start to form. He fidgets and vibrates so much in his seat that a flight attendant comes around twice to ask him if everything is alright. 

He stares at the seat-belt safety buckle sign intently, pleading with it not to flick off, but as the plane finally halts to a grinding stop, fully parked, he’s left with no other choice.

Yuuri reluctantly follows the slew of people heading for the plane’s exit after he absent-mindedly collects his things from the stowage. He passes through immigration and customs seemingly in the blink of an eye, going through the motions. Throughout all this, Yuuri is distracted as he tries valiantly to keep steady breaths. His palms are sweating so much that the handle of his carry-on keeps on slipping from his grasp, just like everything in his life lately.

He marches to arrivals like a man off to the gallows. As he takes his final steps of safety and exits the door, it doesn’t take him more than one cursory sweep of the throng of people waiting to see who was sent for him. 

Two large men in pristine and well-fitted suits stand in the middle of the throng. Despite their size and the formal rigidness to their stance, they would have been otherwise unassuming to Yuuri if it hadn’t been for the large sign they were holding up. The sign was so large, in fact, that a good few feet separated the men as they held one side in each hand. His name is written in bold font in kanji and the Roman alphabet, below that is a slew of letters in Cyrillic, which Yuuri presumes is also his name.

It probably would’ve been a comedic sight if Yuuri was an observer; two burly Russian men holding a name placard so big that its content could be read from across the expanse of the arrivals area, waiting stock still and stoic. He doesn’t have it in him to find it amusing at the moment though, as one of the said burly men catches his eye and seems to know exactly who he is. Before he can run kicking and screaming far away from the men and everything they represent, Yuuri squares his shoulders and moves forward. 

~

Yuuri is deposited in a hotel so grand that he thinks it must be an extension of the Winter Palace itself, though he was informed that they were a few miles away from where the Crown’s residence was actually located. 

Still, the Lion Palace is still that, a grand and towering 19th-century palace turned luxury hotel that leaves Yuuri feeling smaller than he’s ever felt. He’s been surrounded by many imposing buildings before, what with living in New York. There’s something about this one though that takes his breath away. 

His entourage escorts him past the entrance and into the lobby, with its marble flooring and ornate Rococo architecture transporting Yuuri back to the 19th century. He feels overwhelmed, but in a strangely good way. Architecture has never been his strongest suit, but any artist worth their weight would agree that the finery of this building is living and breathing artwork. 

They go up to what Yuuri presumes will be his room for the next two days and the vision that greets him almost makes him giddy. Yuuri has never been one for opulence, both because his parents raised him humbly the best way they can and because he never had any real inclination towards it. Still, in his heart of hearts, he knows that an aesthetically pleasing environment brings out the best in him. 

He’s always loved color, has loved playing around with them ever since he was a child. The room he’s provided with bursts with the perfect mesh of pastels and cream that he almost pulls out his phone to take a picture as a reference so he can recreate the scene in front of him in multi-colored detail on canvas. 

He completely forgets about the two men behind him and he jumps in surprise when he hears a cough. One of the men grunts at him and hands him a phone. 

Yuuri blinks at the man, still dazed. The man blinks at him back, though he does it in an inexplicably scary way that forces Yuuri to smack the phone to his ear. 

“Mr. Katsuki, hello,” Vasily Kuznetsov’s gruff yet modulated voice says, “I hope your journey here was pleasant. How is the hotel to your liking?”

“Oh, uhm, hello,” Yuuri stutters, and he winces slightly at the shake of his voice. He clears his throat and tries again. “Hello, Mr. Kuznetsov. The flight was, uhm, okay, thank you for asking. And, uh, the hotel is very…” he drifts off, uncertain of how to describe the opulence that surrounds him. “It’s very, uh, nice,” he sighs, giving up. He’s an artist and not a writer for a reason. 

“I’m glad to hear that,” Kuznetsov says, sounding genuinely pleased that Yuuri had an agreeable trip. “I’m calling to inform you that Her Imperial Majesty, the Queen has been notified that you have arrived safely to Saint Petersburg. Her Majesty has asked me to call for you for afternoon tea in the Winter Palace tomorrow as formal introductions are in order.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Yuuri agrees, though Kuznetsov never asked if he was willing to have a private meeting with the Queen of all of Russia. The fact that he just agreed to have tea with the queen of Russia is making his head spin a bit though, and he lets it slide. 

“Great,” Kuznetsov hums, “a car would be sent for you tomorrow at around 2:30 PM. In the meantime, please feel free to explore the city. Any and all expenses would, of course, be reimbursed by the palace.”

“Uh,” Yuuri says eloquently, “thank you?” 

“Yes, you’re very welcome, Mr. Katsuki,” Kuznetsov says, “I look forward to meeting you.”

Yuuri utters a non-committal reply, hands the phone back to the men that transported him to his hotel, and watches them leave all in a standstill. The click of the door closing sounds much louder than it should.

He turns around to face the room again and – it’s strange. Suddenly, the giddiness he felt from looking at the magnificent room just moments ago has vanished. The conversation with Kuznetsov, brief as it was, managed to pull Yuuri back on Earth. He’s not here for his own private enjoyment, not for tourist activities and art appreciation trips. As much as he hates to admit it, this trip is nothing more than a business transaction, a concession on his side – he’s giving something of his up for another thing in return. 

He pads to the couch nearest to him (because, believe it or not, there’s more than one) and promptly face plants.

He groans into a scratchy throw pillow, the gaudy gold threading grazing his face. Yuuri thinks it might actually be real gold threading and it reminds him further of where he is. Yuuri thinks that it’s a lot harder to see something as art when you’re faced with the brutal reality of it all when things aren’t strategically placed to deliver a message and please the eye. 

He groans again, louder this time. He feels the weight of his body multiply as if a massive force is pushing his body into the soft upholstery of the couch. 

He wants to sink into it, he wants to allow the pressure to softly bury him in, for the cotton to surround him and engulf him completely. Anything, really, that would let him make his escape and avoid the prospect of going anywhere near the Winter Palace. 

He groans a last time, quietly now. 

The thoughts in his mind scramble and slur, colliding into an abstract echo like static in his brain. The sound is strangely numbing and exhaustion hits him like a train. In seconds, he is asleep. 

~

When Yuuri wakes up, the sun has begun to set outside the horizon. His room is in a high enough floor that it captures the skyline of Saint Petersburg in all its beautiful glory. 

He takes a moment to take in the magnificence of it all in, but the rumbling of his stomach alerts him to the fact that he hasn’t eaten since he was on the plane this morning. 

Yuuri leaves the hotel after bundling up as best he can to fight the harsh Russian winter. He walks around Saint Petersburg with no real destination in mind. The hunger he felt has been swept away the more he’s distracted by the gleam of the city. 

After a while, he stumbles upon a hole in the wall restaurant that offers authentic Russian cuisine. It’s homey, the complete opposite of what his hotel room looks like, and he’s seated and looking at the menu moments later. 

Looking at the prices of each dish, Yuuri remembers what Kuznetsov said, that all of his expenses would be reimbursed. 

But Yuuri is nothing if not stubborn. He thinks that, subconsciously, he chose this restaurant just so he can pay for his own meal. It’s a small act of rebellion that makes him feel less like he’s being bought.

The hostess is old and grey, but also kind and warm, even with the language barrier making it a bit difficult for him to order. He lavishes in the simplicity of it all, though. Of being alone and in handle of his own life again. 

The food rests warmly on his stomach as he leaves, and the way the old woman smiles at him lets him breathe a little easier. 

After, he walks around the city a bit more. The hustle of people around and the lights illuminating the snowy streets makes him feel at ease. He only remembers that it’s apparently new year’s eve when a stray firework booming in the sky catches him off guard. 

Spending new year’s eve alone is nothing new for Yuuri. In the past five years, the tradition for him was to cozy up in his and Phichit’s New York apartment with a bottle of wine and Netflix as his roommate always used to go home for winter break. 

He thinks that part of the reason why Phichit was so happy before he left for Bangkok was that he thought that Yuuri’s holidays would not be another lonely one this year round. 

He hates that he’s going to have to disappoint his best friend again.

At this, he remembers that he hasn’t told Phichit about the world-altering plot twist that has occured in his life, and he feels a twinge of guilt erupt from the pit of his stomach. He and Phichit tell each other everything, with the bond of their friendship growing so strong over the years.

Still, there’s a huge part of him that wants to keep this to himself. If he doesn't say it out loud, if it doesn't leave the realm of his thoughts and is locked away in the confines of his home in Hasetsu with his family, maybe then it won’t be real. 

He acknowledges then that he’s terrified. Not just of the situation, but also of Phichit’s reaction. He’s scared that whatever view Phichit has of him would change because of what he’s about to do, what he’s about to really give up. 

The flash of another firework in the sky takes him away from his revery. He walks, faster this time, and finds a spot somewhere to watch the colors dancing in the sky, welcoming the new year in the brightest way humanity can. 

Yuuri sits on a bench near the Winter Palace where the strips of light cast off from, and he greets the new year with a heavy heart. 

_

The second time Yuuri wakes up in Russia is a lot more hectic than the first. He comes to with the knowledge that, after this day, his life might never be the same again.

It’s a heavy burden to face at 11:30 in the morning. 

He checks his phone the first thing and sees a set of texts and miss calls from various people. His mom mostly, but from Mari, Yuuko, and Phichit too. 

He locks his phone and doesn't reply. He doesn’t have it in him right now to respond to their joyous messages. 

After a few minutes of idling in bed, Yuuri groans and gets up to face the battle. He pads to the bathroom to take a shower, having been too tired last night to do anything more than strip and fall into bed.

He takes his time in the shower, lets the hot drops of water cascade on his back and the steam to cover the whole room. It makes him light-headed after a few minutes though, and he realizes that he can’t stall forever.

Yuuri goes through the motions of putting on the only suit he has and he looks at himself in the mirror with a relief that it somehow still fits. Usually, after all the holiday festivities, he finds himself a couple of pounds heavier. 

Ever since he was young, he’s had a hard time keeping fit. Once he got a bit older, his body more mature, his stature has become much leaner though its no thanks to a proper diet and the gym but more like his inability to keep anything down when the sting of failure becomes too much.

The anxiety and stress of this whole marriage affair seems to have done the job to help him fit in his suit. He hopes he looks decent enough to meet the Queen of Russia. 

Yuuri spends the rest of the time before 2:00 PM pacing his room and working up a sweat. He knows that he should just sit still, maybe watch some shitty Russian telenovela to take his mind off his impending doom. Still, the jitter of his legs won’t stop long enough to even let him sit for more than 3 minutes. 

At 15 minutes to 2:30 PM, he gives up and treks down the lobby. There he spots the two men who picked him up from the airport sitting down the lobby couches. The moment they spot him, they both shoot up and stand at attention, like Yuuri catching them anywhere near a comfortable state of lounging is the biggest crime. 

He approaches them hesitantly, and one of the men nods at him.

“Ready?” The man says in very heavily accented English and Yuuri jolts a bit. He hasn’t heard more than a few grunts of acknowledgment from either men that it surprises him to actually hear one of their voices. 

“Y-yes,” Yuuri agrees and he’s led to the same car that took him from the airport to the hotel.

It takes them less than five minutes to reach the entrance of the Winter Palace, and Yuuri finds it laughable that a car was even sent for him. He would’ve preferred a walk to help him calm his nerves, but it seems that it wouldn’t be appropriate for future royals to ever do such a thing. 

He watches from the car as they pass a gated entrance of the Palace. Moments later, his door is being opened and he’s forced to step out.

A smiling man greets him at the front of a big and opulent door. 

“Mr. Katsuki,” the man says, holding out a hand to shake. “My name is Vasily Kuznetsov, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person.”

Yuuri takes the proffered hand and shakes it, hoping that his grip is strong and his hand isn’t as clammy as it feels. “Likewise,” he says in the steadiest voice he can muster. 

Kuznetsov nods at him, still smiling. He steps back and stretches a limb to gesture towards the closed palace door. “Shall we?” He says and, as if on cue, the doors open to reveal the glory of the Winter Palace.

Yuuri takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and goes.

~  
Yuuri finds himself just minutes later sat on an ornate chair in a large room deep within the bowels of the palace. 

Standing in the middle of the room is a long table large enough to fit 10 people and he’s tasked to sit at the very end of it. 

Kuznetsov shoots a kind smile at him again, and Yuuri has a feeling that the man can feel if not see his apprehension. On the one hand, the thought that the man is trying to appease him even in the slightest bit makes him instinctively relax around Kuznetsov. On the other, the fact that his nerves are actually visible also makes him want to ask Kuznetsov to never look at him again, thank you very much.

“So,” Kuznetsov starts, still standing beside the chair where Yuuri is sat. “I’m not entirely sure if you’re knowledgeable of the rules in meeting with royalty, Mr. Katsuki.”

Yuuri flushes at this, though why he doesn’t know. It’s not like he spends every other weekend of his life hanging out with princes and princesses in one of his lavish estates. He shakes his head as a reply. 

Kuznetsov gives an understanding nod like he just read the jumble of thoughts that passed through Yuuri’s mind. 

“Well, they’re quite simple, really. First, always use the proper address. 'Her Majesty' is sufficient in this case,” Kuznetsov says. “Second, upon meeting, a bow is obligatory. Also, please avoid making eye contact as a sign of respect to Her Majesty. Lastly, please don’t initiate the conversation. Her Majesty will speak when she deems it appropriate,” Kuznetsov finishes.

Yuuri tries to remember all that was said, and he repeats it in his head so as to not make a fool of himself. He nods slowly to signal that he understood.

“Great!” Kuznetsov says, “please wait patiently. Her Majesty will be here soon.” He gives Yuuri a last smile before backing away and moving out of the room.

Yuuri tries to wait patiently, doing his best to stop the rattling of feet on the marble floors. He absent-mindedly drums his fingertips on the fine wood of the table and takes a better look around the room as a distraction.

On his way there, he was way into his own thoughts to notice the paintings that lined the walls of the room. Upon closer inspection now, he gasps. 

He stands up suddenly and approaches one painting like it’s a ticking time-bomb. He doesn’t think that it could be real but when he gets close enough to properly see the painting, he feels his heart swell.

There, on the wall right in front of him, is an original Renoir. 

He has to take a moment at this. It’s not like he hasn’t seen original pieces from the great artists before. He and Phichit are, after all, frequent guests of The Met in New York. Still, it’s never been anything like this. He isn’t in a museum with the paintings swarmed by so many people that it’s lucky if Yuuri even gets a second to admire the brush strokes before he’s pushed away by some teenager who wants a new Instagram entry. 

He’s alone now, free to admire the beauty of the painting. He’s hit with the realization then, of who these people actually are. Royals. Monarchs. Rich enough to have an original Renoir in one of their presumably many dining rooms. 

He feels light-headed.

Yuuri is so enraptured with both the painting and his realization that he doesn’t notice the proclamation of someone entering the room. 

He jumps when someone speaks. 

“Mr. Katsuki,” a calm but strong voice says behind him.

He turns around to see a beautiful woman, her silver hair tied in a clean bun. Her lavender dress flows and drapes her body elegantly. She would look like any other affluent middle-aged woman, but the way she carries herself, posture straight, eyes ablaze, lets Yuuri know exactly who she is.

He spends a second before he notices that he’s looking at the Queen of all of Russia right in the eyes before he squeaks and immediately bends to give probably the deepest bow he’s ever given to anyone.

“Y-your Majesty,” he says in a stutter, embarrassed that he’s already broken one of the rules laid out to him.

He hears a huff then footsteps. The dragging of a chair and the sound of a body lowering itself to sit down. He’s still bowing but he assumes that the queen has taken a seat.

“I don’t blame you, Mr. Katsuki. That piece is quite enthralling,” Catherine III says then she huffs again. “Please, do sit down.”

Yuuri takes a second before he looks up again. He looks to where the queen is, her hands elegantly folded on top of the table. He moves to go back to his seat.

Two attendants come then, one pushing a cart with teapots and cups, the other following closely behind. Yuuri and the queen receive their own cups of tea, White lotus apparently, and the attendants take their leave after a low bow directed to the Queen.

“I won’t amble around with pleasantries, Mr. Katsuki,” Her Majesty begins. “I know that this is a grand decision for you to make. Times have changed and marrying at the age of 24 is almost unheard of, nevermind an arranged marriage.” The queen states, her gaze directed at Yuuri.

He realizes that he has to reply and coughs before opening his mouth. “Y-yes, it’s quite a, uh, decision.”

Catherine hums, and through Yuuri’s bowed head, he sees the queen nodding at Yuuri’s statement. “Tell me honestly, child. What do you think of the whole affair?”

Yuuri perks at this surprised that the queen cares at all of what he thinks.

“Uhm, well,” Yuuri hedges. 

“Please, I won’t take offense. Share with me your thoughts,” she says, tone straight-forward.

Yuuri takes a deep breath and dives in. “Well, I think that arrange marriages are, uhm, antiquated affairs really,” he answers and it sounds even worse out in the open.

The queen hums again, and a hint of a smile pulls at her mouth. “You’re an intelligent young man, Mr. Katsuki, there’s no denying that. Still, though I agree that it is antiquated, arranged marriages are practically tradition in this world.”

Yuuri waits for her to continue with the tone of her voice sounding like there’s something more to come.

He hears the clang of a teacup gently hitting a plate and hears a sigh from Catherine. 

“I’ve been informed by Mr. Kuznetsov that you are much less enthused about marrying the Tsesarevich.” A pause, then “This, in my own honest opinion, is well enough. His Majesty, bless his soul, arranged the marriage only with the purest intentions, I am sure. Nevertheless, I understand completely if you decline –”

Yuuri, in a state of burgeoning panic at what she’s saying, cuts her off. “Actually!” He exclaims suddenly, and he sees in his periphery how the queen startles at the shout. 

He clamps his mouth shut, blushing furiously. He backtracks, embarrassed, “I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt, I –”

The queen raises a hand to wisely stop his ongoing ramble of apologies. She squints her eyes at him, “I thought you said it was antiquated, yes?” 

He feels his fingers trembling from where he has his hands clutching his thighs in a death grip. He looks at his untouched tea as he steadies himself for what he’s about to say. 

“My family,” he starts, already feeling the burning in his ears. “I’ve only been recently, uh, informed of their situation. Financially, I mean,” he pauses, and he thinks that the air around the room has gotten a lot colder in the seconds since he started speaking. “It’s – it’s not good. They’re not in a good place,” Yuuri finishes in a whisper.

It takes a couple of seconds for the queen to respond, and Yuuri is so nervous that he feels like he could combust. 

He hears a scoff, then another. 

When Yuuri dares to look up, he sees the queen looking at him with narrowed eyes, distaste present in her cloudy blue eyes. 

He quickly ducks his head back down.

“I see,” the queen says, tone icier than when they started the conversation. She doesn’t say anything else and Yuuri feels the need to explain.

“I know what it sounds like,” he says quietly, “but if I have the power to save my family, then –”

“I understand, Mr. Katsuki,” Catherine says, carelessly interrupting him. “Of course, if the marriage were to happen, your family will be well taken care of. Once you are part of the Imperial House of Nikiforov, the honor given to you is extended to your family.”

He dares to look up at this, the feeling of hope blossoming in his chest. This is what he came here for. To help his family, to shed the guilt that his selfishness has brought on. 

When he meets the queen’s gaze, it’s completely intentional. “Thank you,” he whispers. 

It feels as if a silent conversation passes as they look at each other in the eyes, but Yuuri is still the first to look away. 

“Tell me, then” the queen begins again. “How is your Russian?” 

Yuuri blinks at his tea again. For a moment he doesn’t understand the question, but it dawns on him quickly that she’s asking how well his Russian is. He doesn’t know how to tell her that he knows about two words in the language.

“Uh,” Yuuri says. 

The queen scoffs again. She brings her tea to her lips, takes a sip, and sets it down again. “Well, we’re going to have to work on that, aren’t we?” She says, a tug of her lips again, though the iciness is still in her eyes. 

~

Yuuri and the queen conversed more about menial topics after the heavy conversation. They talk about his interests, his art, his hometown, and the like. Throughout it all, it felt more like a job interview than anything resembling a friendly conversation.

He doesn’t know if he got the job, but it seems the both of them don’t have a choice, at this point.

He sighs as he’s led through the many hallways of the Winter Palace to where the car that would take him back to his hotel is located. 

Suddenly, the men leading his way halt and bow at the waist. 

Yuuri looks up to see Victor nonchalantly leaning against one of the many doors of the hallway where they are currently in, arms crossed and pleasant smile on his face. His eyes are full of mirth as he looks at Yuuri. 

“Leave us to talk privately,” Victor says in English, and Yuuri knows that it’s for his benefit. Immediately, the men disappear to locations unknown, leaving them alone in the now completely deserted hallway. 

They look at each other for a moment before Victor pushes himself from the door and walks closer to Yuuri. He stops only an arm's length away from him. 

“I guess now you know who I am, hmm?” Victor says, tone amused. 

Yuuri bristles at this. He’s still not completely over his conversation with the queen, and he didn’t really expect to encounter Victor today. 

Yuuri huffs annoyed that the man seems to find the situation amusing. He looks at him directly in the eye, ignoring Mr. Kuznetsov’s voice in his brain shouting at him to stop. “Obviously,” he snarks, and Victor’s smile grows into a full grin at this.

He laughs then, a huffing tone that sounds like nails grating on a chalkboard to Yuuri’s ears. 

Victor circles around Yuuri, like a lion assessing his prey, and lets out a laugh again. “This is going to be fun,” he says, eyes full of mirth. 

Yuuri looks at him and glares feels like he’s missing the punchline of the joke. “What?” he hisses at Victor.

Victor hums. “I think you’re interesting. You’ll keep me amused, I bet,” Victor says as he completes his circle and stands in front of Yuuri again.

A wave of annoyance crawls all over Yuuri’s skin at the tone of Victor’s voice. At the way, he looks all smug and arrogant. “Amused? What, do I look like a toy to you?” He says in the calmest way he can so as to not seem affected. 

Victor hums and doesn’t answer, but the crooked smile he has on his face is an answer enough.

Yuuri prickles at this even more. “What about Chris then? I’ve never been in that kind of situation, but your proposal being rejected must sting a bit,” Yuuri retorts, trying to hit Victor where he thinks it would hurt.

With the way the smile drops from Victor’s face, he thinks he hit jackpot. He feels a swarm of pride at the way he managed to wipe the smile off of the man’s face. 

Victor looks at him with a straight face for a second before the smile is back to his face. “After I thought about it, it’s actually better off like this,” he says. “Chris is my good friend, and this way, I don’t end up trapping him.”

“Trapping him?” Yuuri says, squinting at Victor suspiciously. 

Victor observes Yuuri then, seriously, “I have no idea about what you know of being a royal but you’re going to be a doll in this place. A pretty little puzzle piece that completes the picture,” he says and pauses. “Trapped in a glass case.”

“I–,” Yuuri starts, but he thinks about what Victor just said and stops. “I– that’s – it’s better for Chris, but what about me?” He winces at the vulnerability even he can hear in his voice.

Victor laughs at this and steps closer. He crouches down, eye level to Yuuri, reminiscent of when he cornered Yuuri in a random alley in New York. “I really don’t give a damn, do I?” He says jovially. “At the end of the day, marriage or not, you and I have no relation to one another. I don’t care about you, and you don’t care about me.”

Victor looks at Yuuri as if to wait and see if what he just said had sunken in. He steps back a second later and bows mockingly at him.

“Congratulations, Katsuki Yuuri. You just signed yourself up for the worst thing to ever happen in your life.”

**Author's Note:**

> Дерьмо́: shit  
> Цесаревич: wink wink wonder what it is  
> Okaeri: welcome home  
> Tadaima: i'm home  
> Otouto: little brother  
> Un: yes (informal)
> 
> I'll try to update every week but who knows really


End file.
